


Five Times Sherlock Dressed John, and One Time John Dressed Sherlock

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Clothing, Cockblocking, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Reichenbach, Sexual Tension, sexual contact, unestablished relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does what it says on the tin. Side effects may include smut, feels, angst, and fluff. An auction fic for the AO3 fundraiser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CharlieBravoWhiskey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieBravoWhiskey/gifts).



“You’re making a mistake, John.”

John looked over his shoulder and saw Sherlock still gazing intently down the eyepiece of the damned microscope. Four hours, he’d been like that. “What d’you mean a mistake? Going on a date? You’re hardly the one to give advice in the romance dep— “

“The tie is a mistake. Unless your aim is to be home early…and alone.”

“You can’t even SEE my tie…”  
  
“No, but I can tell you’re wearing one.” Sherlock removed one microscope slide and replaced it with another, never looking in John’s direction. “You have three distinct ‘First Date’ neckties, John — all equally hideous, by the way— but in this case, they are also unnecessary. This isn’t merely a First Date. She has already decided to take you back to her flat for the night. If you don’t want her to change her mind, you should be sure she gets a full view of your bare throat.”

“Are you …? Right. I won’t even go into the consent issues with that. What she has or hasn’t decided is her business. I’d prefer to let the evening unfold naturally, thanks.” Nevertheless, John reached up and began loosening the half-Windsor knot at his collar. “And what does my throat have to do with anything?”

“Odaxelagnia.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked momentarily from the microscope to an evidence bag sitting next to it.

“What?” John tried and failed to keep the growing annoyance out of his voice

“Odaxelagnia. Arousal from biting and being bitten during sex. She clenched her jaw and ground her teeth each time her eyes moved to your neck or your earlobes.”

A tingling heat began to spread up the sides of John’s neck. “Yeah, well that’s hardly—”

“And of course there were the fading marks from her most recent lover. You didn’t see them near the back of her neck? Not surprising, I suppose, given that your attention was focused on a slightly lower area of her anatomy.”

Perfect. Again with the rambling, arrogant, personal observations. Well, thank the gods Sherlock had managed to save this set until the woman in question wasn’t actually present. John wasn’t eager for another of his potential big nights to turn into a drink thrown in his or Sherlock’s face, futile attempts to apologise for his eccentric flatmate, and then a lonely evening of Chinese take-away, sulking, and crap telly.

John was even beginning to suspect Sherlock of thwarting these romantic plans over and over on purpose, like a game or an experiment. So, why should this time be different? Was this some kind of misdirection? Did the beautiful, busty oncologist have a tie fetish or some kind of formalwear kink? Was Sherlock hoping to kill the mood?

John finished undoing the knot, then snaked the striped necktie out of his button-down collar. “And why the sudden urge to help me? Not that I need your help, mind.” He could use a hell of a lot LESS of Sherlock’s bloody help, where females were concerned.

Then a strange thought flashed through John’s mind: did Sherlock hope John would bring this woman back to the flat? Was he hoping the three of them…John’s eyes lost focus for a moment at the unbidden mental image of Sherlock’s long, white neck covered in red and purple bite marks, of watching this Kate make more of them, of making his own marks there, hearing and feeling Sherlock’s rumbling moans as the pain became pleasure… Of having one hand firmly tangled in Sherlock’s dark curls, the other hand reaching lower,  seeing Sherlock’s slim, taut body tremble.

“…prefer not to be disturbed until I’ve finished sometime tomorrow morning.”

When John’s eyes focused again, he found Sherlock’s staring back at him.

_Shit._

“Problem?”

“No. No, I think I can manage to be …out for you… ah, out most of the night, I mean.”

Sherlock scanned John from head to toe, raised an eyebrow, and then returned his attention to the microscope. “Thank you, John.”

John merely nodded and cleared his suddenly-too-tight throat.

Yeah, this was definitely going to be a problem.


	2. Chapter 2

True to his word, John Watson arrived back at Baker Street well past noon the next day. And yes, the sides of his neck, his shoulders, and the front of his throat were mottled with marks in varying shades of purple.  
  
It was glorious.  
  
If only the relationship itself had lasted as long as the small, telling bruises. But, like so many relationships John had tried to maintain since moving in to Mrs. Hudson's building, it had suffered and died from a painful case of Consulting Detectivitis ad Nauseam.  
  
There were text messages and phone calls at inopportune times. _"Do you really have to check that?" "Sorry, it's just that the last time I ignored them I saw the flat bombed out on the morning news."_  
  
There were the plans called off at the last minute. _"I know, I know; believe me, I've been looking forward to it all week, too, but something's come up again...and I'm so sorry."_  
  
And, finally, there was the surprise mid-meal visit at a romantic restaurant. "Ah, Doctor Kate. Breaking the low-fat diet again, I see. Do you find that helps to soothe your resentment after John has cancelled a date? If so, you might consider cheesecake for dessert; there's been a kidnapping, and I require John's assistance at once. Do enjoy the rest of your evening."  
  
While John had to admit he enjoyed watching Sherlock pull strands of _cappellini alla bolognese_ out of his dark hair all the way to the crime scene, he was not ready to forgive this latest intrusion onto his would-be love life.  
  
"You knew it was going nowhere, John."  
  
"No, you arrogant, selfish, invasive bastard, I didn't know that. Not until you made certain of it tonight. Listen, I'm coming along right now because children are in danger, and I want to do what I can to help them. But once we’re done, I’m thinking…. I'm just not sure I can keep on like this." 

Lights and shadows from outside the taxicab window moved across Sherlock’s face.  There was no change in Sherlock’s expression. No emotion at all. “As you wish, John.  You must do as you see fit.”

Twenty silent minutes later, both men were walking down a corridor on the second floor of St. Bart’s. 

“Do I even want to know what’s in this knapsack? Am I going to explode any time in the next five minutes?” John hissed.

“Quiet.” Sherlock rattled the door handle on a darkened office, inserted a thin card between the lock and the jamb, pushed open the door and pulled John inside with him.

“The lock won’t catch again without a key, so you’ll need to keep facing that direction as a lookout. Also, I need to you remain still for the next few moments, no matter what happens.”

“Oh, Christ. Why do I hate the sound of that?”

John heard a faint exhale of laughter as Sherlock moved to kneel behind him. “Are you looking for medical records, or—“

He felt hands undoing his belt and zip. “JESUS, what the hell?!?”

The hands didn’t even stop; they merely batted away John’s (admittedly unconvincing) attempts to stop them. “The kidnapper’s accomplice is being treated for burns and other injuries on this floor.” Sherlock took off John’s right shoe, and then the left. “The police won’t believe my theory that he is, in fact, the one responsible for each threat and ransom request.  I need a recording of his voice.”  Cool air hit bare thighs as Sherlock quickly pulled John’s jeans down to his ankles. “They won’t allow _me_ to speak with their patient, but they won’t stop a doctor from going in and taking vital signs, will they?  Step out of these. Now. I’m going to affix the wire to the inside of your leg and run it up to your chest. You can start unbuttoning your shirt, as well.” Sherlock moved around to kneel in front of John. He’d taken the tiny microphone and long wires out of the bag, and he was providing adequate light in that dark space by holding a small torch. 

Holding it in his mouth.  As in, holding the blunt, cylindrical end of it between his full lips.  All whilst his hands worked their way up John’s leg and inner thigh. “Oh, fuck….” John whispered. 

He was getting hard, now; of course he was.  He was standing in a darkened room, in nothing but his unbuttoned shirt and black satin very- big-date-tonight pants as Sherlock knelt in front of him and sucked absently on what John couldn’t deny he wished was another object entirely.

Sherlock’s hand slapped John’s other thigh. John re-focused and saw Sherlock pointing to the folded surgical scrubs in the open bag.  He pulled off his unbuttoned shirt, grabbed the scrubs, and had one arm through the top when Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

“Mmmm-mmm.” Sherlock shook his head.

“What, I’m not wearing this?”

The torch popped out of Sherlock’s mouth with a delicious and unsettlingly-obscene sound. “Don’t put it on until I have the microphone in place. Here. Hold the torch. Aim it at my hands.  Move the light with them.” Those hands were using tape to affix a thin wire to the inside of John’s left thigh.  Sherlock smoothed it down and in doing so grazed John’s semi-erect cock with the tips of two long fingers.

The light – and John himself – jumped.

“Focus, John. Time is of the essence.” 

John bit down on his lower lip and did his best to focus on anything but the physical contact that was happening.

It worked fairly well, in fact. That is, until Sherlock slipped one index finger under the fabric of John’s pants.

“Stay still, please. I’m merely running the wire underneath. It might feel… disconcerting…. for a moment.”

Disconcerting wasn’t the word John would have chosen. Not at all. John didn’t want to think about the words he might use to describe the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers pushing up against bare skin from the top of his thigh to the middle of his groin.  He didn’t have a vocabulary for the feeling of Sherlock’s other hand slipping down John’s abdomen, under the waistband of the straining fabric, brushing the side of John’s erection, and then dragging a thin wire up the length of it and out onto John’s stomach.

He could hear his own breath, shallow and shaking, as the microphone was finally taped down over his sternum.

“Now pull on the shirt.”

John did as he was told.

Sherlock took the bottom half of the scrubs and held them open in front of John’s feet. “Step in.”

When his first step nearly cost him his balance, John reached out to steady himself on Sherlock’s shoulder.  It was surprisingly warm. And strong.

Sherlock pulled the leg of the scrubs up to John’s knee, looped the other leg around John’s other ankle, pulled the breeches all the way up to John’s waist, secured the string tie, and smoothed the top portion over John’s midsection all in one fluid movement.

“You’ll need to get him to speak a few numbers. Perhaps have him count back from ten, tell you the date, his postcode… Other than that, keep it brief and cursory. Take his pulse, check the dilation of his pupils, and meet me in the morgue as quickly as you can. We can use Molly’s computer.”

“Mmm.”  Once again, John was distracted, listening to Sherlock’s voice but barely registering the words. 

“Do you understand everything I’ve told you, John?”

“Yes.”

“And can you walk?” Sherlock nodded his head in the direction of John’s crotch. “In your present condition?”

Heat rose to John’s face and ears. He hoped it was too dark for Sherlock to see the deep flush it must be causing.

“Never you mind about my condition.  If you’d warned me what was going to happen…. Or managed to watch your hands, thank you very much, I wouldn’t be in this condition.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“You should be committed.  And so should I.”

Sherlock looked at his watch. “Yes, we can discuss your commitment issues at a later time. You have just under fifteen minutes until his real doctor arrives. If your…condition… hasn’t improved by then, you might want to compliment Dr. Preston on his tie and suggest drinks this weekend.  Best of luck.”

Before John could think of an appropriate response, Sherlock stood up,  opened the office door, and was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

A month had come and gone.  Both men had apparently made an unspoken agreement not to discuss what had “come up” in that darkened office at Bart’s, and that was fine by John. Completely fine. All fine.

Except that it wasn’t.

He wanted something more from Sherlock than he’d wanted before. Not necessarily sex, though he knew he’d probably agree to that and enjoy it if it were on his own terms.  John found himself wanting connection. Recognition that there was more than a flatmates/colleagues dynamic.  He wanted, if he was honest with himself, to be special to Sherlock.  That woman, the one whose phone was still tucked away like a trophy in the desk, had made him face those facts. Those bloody stupid, uncomfortable facts.

_Fucking idiot. I am too old for this kind of schoolboy nonsense._

So they kept things “normal” for the time being.  When there wasn’t a case, John wrote up their previous adventures, tried and failed to keep the same girlfriend for more than two weeks, and took care of most of the domestic duties around the flat. Not ideal, but… there it was.  And it was a damn sight better than his life had been right after coming back from the desert.  Even on dull days like today.

“Sherlock, have you done something with my jumper? The aran knit one? Because I’ve looked everywhere, and I was going to take the laundry down to—“

“Dull.”  Sherlock had his fingers steepled beneath his chin, and he kept his eyes closed.

“Yeah, well it’s my favourite, and I’d like to wear it again in this lifetime, so have you put it away somewhere?”

Sherlock sighed but didn’t open his eyes.

“The oatmeal-coloured jumper?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Ah. I disposed of it.”

“You…did WHAT?”

“Disposed of it.” Sherlock looked up and waved a hand dismissively. “Spilled a flask of muriatic acid, and it was the first thing to hand. Surely you can replace it. No doubt Marks and Spencer has dozens of exactly the same style.”

John clenched and unclenched his left fist. He took a step toward Sherlock, then he took a deep breath before he spoke.

“Don’t pretend… don’t for a moment pretend that you didn’t know that was hand-knitted, not some off-the-rack rubbish. I told you, for Christ’s sake… my grandmother, may she rest in peace, made that specially for me when I started medical school. I took the damn thing to Afghanistan so Harry wouldn’t accidentally give it to one of her girlfriends…”  He could feel his voice starting to get louder and barely shaky. “You knew that, damn you…”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Well, I must have deleted it, John. Not exactly the type of information I would need to keep.”

“No. No, it wasn’t important, was it? Right. Because there isn’t anything in this dull, boring REAL world that’s important to you, is there? And my life…. There’s just _nothing_ sacred.  Not my time, not my belongings, not my relationships, not even my own body is mine as far as you’re concerned. It’s all just expendable unless it’s a tool to help with your bloody work.”

John was breathing hard, and tears were stinging the backs of his eyes. He hated this. He hated sounding like a damned mistress or God knows what.  But he was not going to cry, goddammit.

 _I will see you dead before I fucking cry in front of you, you bastard_.

“John…” Sherlock, for once, looked concerned.

“Save it, Sherlock.  Save the lecture on sentiment for someone who hasn’t heard it before, all right?”  John scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to Mike’s. I might be back. I might not. I need to get out of here.”

The rest of the night was a blur of anger, embarrassment, and some very welcome scotch. Mike, true to form, gave John an ear when he needed it and blessed, blessed space when he needed that more.

John stayed with Mike for a week.  He didn’t answer Sherlock’s texts. He even ignored Sherlock’s phone call. 

Let Sherlock feel deleted for once.

When he finally returned to Baker Street, he found no sign of explosions or cadavers. Sherlock was standing by the window.

He turned immediately to face John.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

John nodded. “For now,” he answered.

“John, I… I owe you an apology.  I can’t replace your jumper, obviously, but—“

“It isn’t just about a jumper, Sherlock.”

_It isn't about anything you could understand._

“Nevertheless, John. I wanted to make it up to you in some way. I have something for you. Something hanging in my closet.  I didn’t… I thought I would avoid going into your bedroom without your knowledge.”

For a moment, John saw something new in Sherlock’s expression. Something very much like anxiety or even fear. Was Sherlock afraid of John? Did he think John would hurt him? Or was it something else? Was Sherlock actually afraid of John leaving him?

John cleared his throat. “Oh. I, um, appreciate that.”

A glimmer of hope brightened Sherlock’s eyes. “Could I show you what it is? Or is now not a good time?”

“No, no, it’s fine.  I’ll take a look now, if you like.”

“After you.” Sherlock followed John into the bedroom and walked over to the open closet.

 He took down a garment bag and laid it carefully on the edge of the bed.

When John saw the clothier’s name on the top, his eyes widened.

Sherlock opened the bag and lifted out the jacket of a stunning charcoal-grey tailored suit.

“I hope the colour is right for you…”

“Sherlock, is this a bespoke suit?”

“Made-to-measure, technically.  Bespoke would involve several fittings, and I didn’t know if you would be…available… again.  I thought that, in the worst case, I could send it to your new address with the rest of your things, if you decided not to come back.”  He bit his lower lip and looked away as John took the jacket from him.

“It’s very nice, Sherlock. I’ve never had anything like this, really. You didn’t have to do this. HOW did you do this?”

“Well,” Sherlock grinned.  “I’m fairly adept at judging measurements, and I knew your inseam thanks to the ....microphone issue. Usually, an order like this takes much more than a week, but Mycroft’s tailor was able to speed things up.”

John swallowed.  “You asked Mycroft for a favor? For this?”

“Yes, John.”

“Even knowing I might not come back?”

“Yes.”

The jacket alone was beautiful and elegant and probably cost more by itself than John had spent on every item of clothing he’d ever bought in his adult life.

“Would you help me try it on?”

Sherlock nodded.  John shucked his black hunting jacket and navy cardigan. The ice-blue shirt he had on – the same one he’d been wearing when he stormed out a week ago – just happened to match the new suit perfectly. 

It was almost as if Sherlock had remembered the exact colour and had ordered the suit to match the last thing he’d seen John wear.

“Obviously, I don’t wear ties, but I saw this one, and I thought it might do…” He handed John a knit tie with wide horizontal bands of alternating light blue and dark grey.

“Yes, it’s…really nice, this.”

John looped the tie around his neck for the time being. Sherlock held out the suit jacket.

He slipped his right arm in, and it was like he could _feel_ the money and time that had been spent on him.

He pushed his left arm into the other sleeve and turned to face the mirror.

Sherlock stood behind him, smoothing down the shoulders and tugging lightly at the cuffs.

“It’s perfect,” John muttered.

“Not bad under the circumstances, I think.”

“About those circumstances….Sherlock, look at me.”  John waited until Sherlock’s eyes caught his in the mirror. “I wasn’t angry about the jumper. I mean, okay, yes, I was bloody angry about that jumper, but that’s not what hurt the most.  I don’t know what I’m even trying to say, here, I just… I want to be more than—“

“An accessory?”

John let out a sigh. “Yeah. Something like that. I suppose.”

“You are a useful part of my work, John. A vital part.”

“Of your work.”

“Yes. And I believe that you are also an indispensable part of whatever life I may be said to have outside the realm of my work. Before we met, I wished that part of my life to be as minimal as possible. Now, I find I could do with, perhaps, a bit more.”

“But just a bit,” John laughed.

This time Sherlock smiled in earnest. It was one of his exceedingly rare, real smiles. “Just a bit, yes.”  He put his hands on John’s shoulders, then he slid them down to John’s upper arms. Never did he break eye contact in the mirror. “Do you think that is enough? For now?”

“For now. Yes. It will have to be, won’t it? Because I’m not ready to leave just yet.  You have to swear something to me, though, Sherlock.”

“And what is that?”

John smoothed out the lapels of the jacket. “Swear to me that the next time I wear this suit, you will NOT do or say anything that will get food thrown at one of us.  Understood?”

“I will do my best, John. Can I assume you approve of the way it looks?”

“I do indeed.”

“Shall I help you with the trousers?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

 

 

 

____________________________

_About that suit: [[x](http://sc.aithine.org/sherlock/203/07/sherlock-203-06278.jpg)]_


	4. Chapter 4

John had to admit that his made-to-measure suit looked just as wonderful on him as it did on three different bedroom floors that month.

Okay, tell a lie, he never let that wonderful thing touch the floor. His dates were more than happy to wait a few extra seconds while he carefully and lovingly hung it up.  He always made up for it, too. With interest.

Each time he wore the suit out on a “big” date, Sherlock seemed pleased but…concerned. John wondered if, just perhaps, there was a bit of jealousy, there. But was Sherlock jealous of John, or was he jealous of John’s ladyfriends? 

And then there was that smirk on Sherlock’s face each time John returned earlier than noon the next day.

So what if John wasn’t staying as late on overnight dates? It wasn’t like he was eager to get back home to Sherlock….

….Well….

No. No, that was nonsense.

Total nonsense.

Mostly.

Tonight, at any rate, he wouldn’t be wearing the suit. Tonight was his med-school mate Andy’s stag do, and, per the groom’s explicit instructions, all attendees were to dress in kilts. Not a problem for John Hamish Watson, current owner of the late Archibald Hamish Watson’s official [Watson tartan](http://www.scotlandshop.com/tartan.aspx/Watson-Ancient-Tartan-13657) kilt (and a more modern, black [ghillie shirt](http://thumbs3.ebaystatic.com/d/l225/m/mf2l5Tiw9PAcvrvoqcYiYvQ.jpg) to match).

And under no circumstances did John feel a kind of thrill when he walked into the sitting room and saw the expression of surprise and interest on Sherlock’s face.

“Meeting of the clans?” Sherlock asked.

“Stag do. All kilts. Groom’s request.”

“Dare I ask if you’re wearing anything underneath that?”

“Says the man who went to Buckingham palace naked.  But, if you are so keen to know, it wouldn’t be a proper kilt if I had pants on underneath. So they say.”

“Ah. Well. That should make it easier for you toss your caber, I imagine.”

John laughed out loud in spite of himself.  Before he knew what he was doing, he shot back, “Do you spend a lot time imagining that, Sherlock?”

_Shit. I said that out loud._

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “Is that a question you’d like me to answer? I wonder...”

“Umm, no. Ignore that. Just a joke.”

“Is it?”

Sherlock set aside the _Journal of Neuropathology,_ pushed himself up from the leather de Corbusier chair, and walked over to stand directly in front of John.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” John licked his lips and squared his shoulders.

“Testing a theory. Don’t be alarmed; it’s purely for research purposes.”  John could swear that Sherlock’s voice had gotten lower and closer to a growl.

“And what if I don’t feel like helping you test your bloody theory?”

Sherlock placed both hands on John’s hipbones. “Then you simply tell me the experiment is over.”

John blinked. “Are you actually serious? And that’s supposed to work, is it?”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

_Fine. You want to play this game, do you? You think I’m going to blush and back down so you can feel superior? Fuck you._

_Maybe literally._

“Yeah, I have a better suggestion, Sherlock.” John pushed Sherlock’s hands away and sat down, knees spread wider than usual, on the edge of the sofa.  “You want to know what goes on at a stag do? How about we start with a lap dance?”  John patted his own thighs in invitation.

_Your move, you smug bastard._

To John’s perhaps-not-complete horror, Sherlock grinned and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “As you wish, Doctor Watson.”

_Oh, fuck. Fucking hell. Fucking hell damn._

Sherlock removed his jacket, set it aside, and undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt before he rolled them up.  “Of course, I’m far from a professional. You may need to offer some instruction,” he stepped closer to the sofa and bent his knees to straddle John’s lap before adding, “purely in the interest of science.”

Whether or not science had anything to do with it, John’s cock was now showing significant interest in the situation.  And the lack of pants under his kilt was not helping to hide it.

“Does the one receiving the lap dance usually respond so….fully….this early on? Or am I naturally gifted?” A truly obnoxious smile parted Sherlock’s lips.

“You’re naturally…” John shifted his hips backward, but he wasn’t quite able to break contact with Sherlock’s body, “a git is what you are.”

“So I’ve heard. Now, I assume the dance aspect of this refers to some sort of repetitive, undulating motion. Like this?” Sherlock began to twist and grind his hips.

“Fuck…” John gasped.

“Is that a request?”

“No,” John huffed.

Sherlock leaned closer and pressed his forehead to John’s. “Ah. Is it an order, instead?”

Before John could answer, he heard the familiar sound of a text message alert from Sherlock’s phone.  Sherlock’s eyes closed. His smile twisted into something positively sadistic.

Sherlock leapt up and retrieved his phone from his discarded jacket.

After glancing at the message, he headed toward the microscope on the kitchen table. “Enjoy your evening, John. I won’t wait up.”

 

If there had been a prize for the least happy, most drunk man at Andy’s party that night, John Hamish Watson would have won it, hands down.

 


	5. Chapter 5

If you’d seen John Hamish Watson in his kilt, sitting off by himself, drunk and miserable, at a rollicking stag do, you might have asked him if he was all right.  And at that particular moment, John would have answered you that he was most definitely NOT all right. The truth-inducing effects of alcohol would have prompted him to tell you that he was suffering, right then and there, the worst moment of his life.

What he would not have known, of course, was that the worst moment of his life was only a few months away.

Nothing made sense that day when John watched, helpless, as Sherlock admitted not being a genius, admitted to creating Moriarty, and then said a final, cold, “Goodbye, John” before stepping off of the ledge and falling to his death.

Nothing made sense as John sat barefoot in their flat, unable to think or feel or move.

Nothing made sense as John wept in front of a dark headstone and fought to regain some semblance of control.

The one thing John could do, though… the one thing he’d had to do his whole life, was fight.

So John fought the urge to give up entirely. He fought the urge to believe the lies everyone spewed about his best friend’s life.

He even fought the urge to just _exist_ rather than to _live_. And that was the hardest fight of all.

Fast-forward a few years, to the evening of another stag do.

Certainly, neither John nor Sherlock would have imagined this scenario: John as the happy bridegroom, Sherlock as his Best Man, both of them leaving a high-end tailor’s with matching Morning Dress for the following day.

“You do know Greg can host the party, right? You don’t have to go to any trouble with that bit. I’m just glad to have you stand up with me tomorrow.” John put his hand on the back of Sherlock’s elbow as they crossed the road. It had become an unconscious habit, a way of reassuring himself that Sherlock was really there and within reach. A way to know that, if disaster were to strike again, John would be close enough to do something about it this time.

Sherlock nodded and hailed a taxi cab. He held door open for John. “Lestrade has taken care of most of the festivities. But as your Best Man, I am still bound to watch over you tonight.”

“And _get me to the church on time_ ,” John sang.

“To the best of my ability,” Sherlock answered with a faint smile.

When they were both settled in, Sherlock leaned toward the driver and instructed him to take them to “Baker Street. 221b.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Another last-minute detail.”

Once there, John stood and waited for Sherlock to open the front door.  He had to struggle to match Sherlock’s pace up those familiar seventeen steps.

It still felt painful, John had to admit, to know that 221b was no longer ‘home’ anymore.  John looked around at the new additions – equipment and clutter, for the most part – and he tried to picture it all just as he’d left it back when everything was too much to bear.

“I’ll hang these up for now, shall I?” Sherlock offered.

“Sure, yeah.”

Sherlock took the garment bags from John and opened his mouth as if to speak. Apparently, he thought better of it, for he merely nodded again.

He’d been like this for a few weeks, as far as John could tell. John figured it was the upcoming wedding and the unavoidable changes their friendship had undergone since Sherlock’s “death” and rebirth.

Things couldn’t remain the same as before. Of course they couldn’t. They’d been through too much pain and loss and… well… just too _much,_ full stop.

When Sherlock returned, he was holding – make that cradling – something in an opaque plastic bag.  He cleared his throat and looked somewhere past John’s shoulder before he spoke.

“This is… erm… difficult for me.  I owe you an apology, John.  A thousand apologies at least, for many, many wrongs...”

John felt his own throat start to tighten. “Sherlock, it’s okay. We’ve talked about this. We’re going to get past—“

“No, John. Please.” Sherlock managed to look directly into John’s eyes, now. “Please let me finish what I need to do.”

“Okay. All right. It’s all right. I’m listening. I’m right here.”

At those last words, Sherlock let out a short, sobbing laugh. He had to close his eyes for a moment and looked as though he was forcing himself to focus his energies before he looked again at John.

“A few years ago, when we were first working together, you mentioned that you might leave. You feared that I was disrupting your personal life, and that my work… our work… often came at the cost of your other relationships.  I didn’t want to lose you,… yet I didn’t believe I could make you stay… so I chose to take something of yours to keep with me… for the time when you would, inevitably, leave.  I know it was wrong of me to do that. I also know that it was wrong of me to lie to you about what became of the item when you noticed it was missing.”

Sherlock undid the plastic zip closure of the bag and lifted out an oatmeal-coloured, hand-knit aran jumper.

“Oh, my God.” John stared at the jumper for a moment before reaching out to take it from Sherlock’s hands.

But Sherlock pulled the jumper away.

“No. No, you see, John,” Sherlock’s face now had a humourless smile; “I’m not giving this back. I… I _can’t_ give this back to you. I must keep this.  I’ve come to need it… as painful and embarrassing as that is to confess, even to you. I will admit that I took it, and I will compensate you in any way you deem fit, but I will not let it leave my possession.”

John squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. “What? What the _hell_ are you talking about? If you’re going to keep it…and if you think I’ll just let you… why even tell me you have it? You’re just clearing your conscience?  Since when did you even _care_ about any of this?”

When John opened his eyes, he saw Sherlock standing with shoulders back, jaw set, and what he could tell without a doubt were the beginnings of teardrops welling in the corners of his eyes.

“I am telling you this because I need you to do something for me, one last thing, possibly, but I need it nonetheless…. Please.”

_You steal something personal from me, and you tell me I can’t ever have it back, and then you ask me for a favour? Well, that’s fucking typical._

“And that is? What’s this bloody favour you think you need?”

“I need you to put it on again, just for an hour or so.”

John’s jaw dropped. “What? Why?”

“Because, John….despite the fact that it is stored in sealed plastic, the jumper’s scent has dissipated a great deal over the years….”

For a second, John wondered if Greg and the others were hiding just out of sight, filming all this as a practical joke.

“Sherlock, are you saying that you want me to put on this jumper…..so it will _smell_ like me again?”

“Yes.”

It didn’t make sense.

_When did Sherlock Bloody Holmes ever make sense?_

“Will you do this for me, John?” Sherlock took another deep breath. “Please.”

“Why are you doing this? Why now, Sherlock? Why today of all days are you….showing me that you….” John bit back the words. He wasn’t sure. How could anyone be sure what went on in that mind?  And even worse, how could anyone truly know what Sherlock was feeling?

_….What might we deduce about his heart?..._

“Forgive me, John. I know this is the wrong time. I realise that I should have said something….said many things….   I was at a loss…” Sherlock began to twist the beige, woolen material in one hand.

John’s voice grew louder despite himself. “I went through hell, Sherlock, not knowing if I meant anything to you at all.  Christ, those years after you were gone… It was fucking torture wishing I’d said something.  Wishing you’d cared enough to say something. And you wait until the night before my wedding?  When I’ve accepted it all and moved on with my life? When I’m on the _brink_ of a normal, sane life?”

Sherlock took a step closer. “Are you sure it’s the life you truly want?”

“What I want is to be done with this conversation. If it means I have to put ….that…. on for whatever mad reason, then fine. Give it here.” John snatched the jumper from Sherlock’s hand.

“Your hands are trembling. Let me.” Sherlock helped John pull the jumper on; he smoothed it flat against John’s ribs.

John shivered.

“I have to ask you again. I need to know if there any chance that you might change your mind. Is it too late, John?”

“Damn it, Sherlock….” John let out a long, exasperated sigh and closed his eyes.

_Damn him. Damn this._

“I see,” Sherlock murmured. “I understand.”

 _Fuck_.

“No, Sherlock, you don’t understand.” John opened his eyes. He reached up and took Sherlock’s face in his hands. “You don’t understand anything.”

And there in the middle of the sitting room at 221b, the day before his wedding, John Watson kissed Sherlock Holmes on his beautiful, idiotic mouth.

Sherlock’s entire body froze for a good five seconds. Then he relaxed, moved closer, and wrapped his long arms around John as they continued the hungry and fumbling kiss.

_I don’t care. I don’t care what happens. I don’t care what this is. I don’t care. I don’t care. Fuck it._

Sherlock squeezed John tighter, kissed him harder, gulped and gasped into John’s mouth. It made John forget anything else in the world had ever existed. He only knew he needed Sherlock. More of Sherlock.

John began to push Sherlock’s jacket off his shoulders and down. Sherlock let go of him long enough to slide out one arm and then the other, but the moment both arms came free, they were back around John’s body. Sherlock’s fingers spread wider and dug in, as if he meant to hold as much of John as he could in just those huge hands.

John moved grasped a handful of Sherlock’s hair to pull their mouths even closer. Sherlock’s full lips slid against John’s, his mouth opened wider as John’s tongue pushed and searched and tasted. Every time John pulled back even a millimetre, Sherlock’s mouth followed, eager and begging.  John relished the sensation of Sherlock’s desperate longing almost as much as the physical feel of that warm, wet tongue entwined with his own. 

And when Sherlock began to suck…hard… on John’s tongue, it was like a jolt of electricity shot right to his already-stiffening cock.

_Christ…_

Stopping, even slowing down, was no longer an option. He put his free hand on Sherlock’s glorious arse and pressed their bodies flush together.  Sherlock’s erection was rock-hard against John’s hip and abdomen.  John thrust against him and was rewarded with a moan that vibrated both of their torsos.  He had to hear more. He had to hear that voice cry out for him. Oh, God, he had to hear it.

_Right fucking now._

Breaking off the kiss, John pulled Sherlock’s head back and raked his teeth against that long, pale neck. Sherlock made a sound somewhere between a growl and a whine.

“Get on the sofa. Undo your belt,” John commanded.

Sherlock was only too eager to obey. And at that moment, John couldn’t remember a decision more difficult than whether to stay pressed tightly against the taut body or to let himself drink in the sight of Sherlock sprawled on the leather cushions, waiting for him.

He chose the latter. It was not a disappointment.

Belt unbuckled, chest rising and falling rapidly, lips parted, Sherlock lay still and waited for John to take the four quick strides and stand over him.  John was this close to coming just from that image alone. 

He moved Sherlock’s thigh aside and knelt with one knee between Sherlock’s legs.  It was a matter of seconds before he was hastily undoing his own belt and zip.  He let his body ease down onto Sherlock’s, and he captured Sherlock’s mouth in his once more.

As he licked and bit at Sherlock’s full lower lip, John moved his hand down to Sherlock’s still-fastened trousers and stroked the length of the erection that was straining against them.

“John…” Sherlock gasped.

John undid the zip and drew Sherlock out. The head was already slick, and John had no trouble gliding some of the wetness down the shaft before pushing his own cock down against it and moving, slowly, back and forth.

“God…. God, John….” Sherlock was moving, too – nearly thrashing underneath him. 

When he felt Sherlock’s body go completely rigid, he could barely hold on himself. Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s back; John rutted furiously against him until he heard the strangled cry of pleasure and release: “JOHN!”

Sherlock spilled out over them, and John followed mere seconds after, unable to even to speak through the force of his orgasm.

He let himself collapse and catch his breath.

Sherlock moved aside as much as possible, and John filled in what space there was between Sherlock’s body and the back cushions. He was positioned with his head higher than Sherlock’s.  The dark curls tickled his chin as Sherlock continued to breathe heavily.

John reached out and put his hand on the side of Sherlock’s face. He felt the edge of Sherlock’s smile against it.

_Just twenty minutes. Let me stay like this for twenty minutes. And then I’ll sort out what the fucking hell I’ve just done._

That was the last thought John had before he drifted off into one of the deepest sleeps of his life.


	6. Chapter 6

Soft rays of morning light awoke John. He felt disoriented for a moment. Where was he? Why wasn’t he in his own bed?

He could feel Sherlock breathing slowly and evenly.  John focused his eyes and saw that they were entwined on the sofa in the sitting room, Sherlock’s head tucked under John’s, John’s hand resting alongside Sherlock’s face.

John smiled for a moment, relishing how content he felt.

Then he remembered what day it was.

“Hey. Wake up,” He patted Sherlock’s cheek. “Sherlock, get up. We’re going to be late. We fell asleep on the sofa. Come on.”

Sherlock opened one eye and pulled his wrist up close to his face. He squinted at his wristwatch. “Plenty of time,” he mumbled.

John had to use all of his strength to push Sherlock to the very edge of the cushions. “We’ve got a wedding in under three hours, and we are NOT going to be late. Move your lanky arse out of my way.”

Sherlock sighed, stretched luxuriously, pulled himself up to a sitting position, and stood up. He held out a hand to John.

“Need help?”

“No.” John batted the hand away.

“Please yourself. Shall I shower first or do you want that privilege on this auspicious occasion?”

John scrubbed a hand over his eyes and down to assess the amount of stubble on his chin.  “You go first. Keep it quick, though.”

“We could always save time and shower together.” Sherlock gave John a look of obviously-feigned innocence.

“NO,” John all but shouted.

“As you wish.”

It took Sherlock only six minutes to shower (he’d always been quick, though John had known him to get in and out in just four back in the early days).  John slid past Sherlock’s still-dripping, slender frame, and adjusted the water temperature down a bit before taking off his clothes and stepping under the warm spray.

He took a moment to drop his head backward and just let the water run down his skin.

_I can’t believe this is happening.  I’m going to be married by lunchtime today._

Sherlock was nearly finished shaving when John stepped out. “I’ll avert my eyes, if you like,” he said, keeping his gaze on his own reflection in the mirror.

“Very funny.”

John grabbed a towel and started drying off.  He stole a glance at Sherlock.

The years had been incredibly kind to the man; there was no denying it. Skin still pale but healthy, not an ounce of flab around his middle. Only the strands of grey at his temples even hinted at his age.

Not for the first time, John felt a twinge of jealousy.

Clean, dry, and shaven, both men stood in the bedroom as they dressed for the upcoming ceremony.

John took the dove-grey coat from Sherlock’s suit and held it up for him.  “Here. Put your arms through.”  Sherlock complied, then shrugged the rest of the coat onto his shoulders.

He turned to face the mirror. John turned, too.

“How do I look?” Sherlock asked.

“Bloody gorgeous, as usual,” John replied flatly. “Don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to let you stand beside me.”

Sherlock reached over to the bedside table and picked up a pair of spectacles. “Put these on. I’d prefer to be flattered by you and not by your poor eyesight.”

John settled the glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “My eyesight is not that poor. I barely need these.  But thank you for allowing me to get a better look at the wrinkles around my eyes. That helps.”

He sighed and finished buttoning his waistcoat.  Sherlock put a hand on the small of his back.

“You are even more handsome than the first time we met, John. The more silver in your hair, the more wrinkles around your eyes only serve to make you look distinguished.  As I’ve told you countless times.”

“Are you implying that there’s something wrong with my memory?” John laughed.

Sherlock smiled. “Help me with the tie?”

John turned toward Sherlock and began threading one end of the tie through Sherlock’s collar. “I should be happy you agreed to a tie again. I know how you love them.”

“Mmmm. Well, I’m willing to sacrifice when it comes to weddings. And sometimes funerals.  Though not my own funeral. It’s in my will.”

“That’s your problem, not mine. I’ve already been to one funeral for you. You can have the next one after I’m dead. Got it?” John pulled the knot up and snuggled it close under Sherlock’s collar.

“Agreed. Though it’s hardly fair that you begrudge me a second funeral, especially after I’ve stood beside you for more than one wedding.”

A warm feeling spread through John’s chest. He looked up into Sherlock’s eyes. How could he ever hope to describe those eyes? Brilliant, piercing, otherworldly….

….Loving.

“Yes, Sherlock, you have a point. But you’re overlooking a rather important detail, aren’t you?”

“John, I’m shocked. How could you cast such aspersions?”

“Well, I’m just saying that standing beside me as my best man was one thing. It isn’t the same as standing beside me as my groom. Now hold still and let me finish getting you dressed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can safely assume John married Mary Morstan the day after he first slept with Sherlock. Whether their marriage ended in divorce or due to Mary's death (as it does in ACD canon), and whether it lasted one miserable week or twenty happy years (or anything in between) is totally up to you, beloved readers. :-)

**Author's Note:**

> Charlie was kind enough to let me post this in installments!


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